Demon Lord of Karanda

by David Eddings

  ‘Be careful when you cross into Venna,’ Yarblek cautioned his rat-faced partner. ‘Some of the stories coming out of there are more ominous than the ones coming out of Karanda.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘It’s as if a kind of madness has seized them all. Of course, Grolims were never very sane to begin with.’

  ‘Grolims?’ Sadi looked up sharply.

  ‘Venna’s a Church-controlled state,’ Silk explained. ‘All authority there derives from Urvon and his court at Mal Yaska.’

  ‘It used to,’ Yarblek corrected. ‘Nobody seems to know who’s got the authority now. The Grolims gather in groups to talk. The talk keeps getting louder until they’re screaming at each other, and then they all reach for their knives. I haven’t been able to get the straight of it. Even the Temple Guardsmen are taking sides.’

  ‘The idea of Grolims cutting each other to pieces is one I can live with,’ Silk said.

  ‘Truly,’ Yarblek agreed. ‘Just try not to get caught in the middle.’

  Feldegast had been softly strumming his lute and he struck a note so sour that even Garion noticed it.

  ‘That string’s out of tune,’ Durnik advised him.

  ‘I know,’ the juggler replied. ‘The peg keeps slippin’.’

  ‘Let me see it,’ Durnik offered. ‘Maybe I can fix it.’

  ‘’Tis too worn, I fear, friend Durnik. ’Tis a grand instrument, but it’s old.’

  ‘Those are the ones that are worth saving.’ Durnik took the lute and twisted the loose peg, tentatively testing the pitch of the string with his thumb. Then he took his knife and cut several small slivers of wood. He carefully inserted them around the peg, tapping them into place with the hilt of his knife. Then he twisted the peg, retuning the string. ‘That should do it,’ he said. He took up the lute and strummed it a few times. Then, to a slow measure, he picked out an ancient air, the single notes quivering resonantly. He played the air through once, his fingers seeming to grow more confident as he went along. Then he returned to the beginning again, but this time, to Garion’s amazement, he accompanied the simple melody with a rippling counterpoint so complex that it seemed impossible that it could come from a single instrument. ‘It has a nice tone,’ he observed to Feldegast.

  ‘’Tis a marvel that ye are, master smith. First ye repair me lute, an’ then ye turn around an’ put me t’ shame by playin’ it far better than I could ever hope to.’

  Polgara’s eyes were very wide and luminous. ‘Why haven’t you told me about this, Durnik?’ she asked.

  ‘Actually, it’s been so long that I almost forgot about it.’ He smiled, his fingers still dancing on the strings and bringing forth that rich-toned cascade of sound. ‘When I was young, I worked for a time with a lute maker. He was old, and his fingers were stiff, but he needed to hear the tone of the instruments he made, so he taught me how to play them for him.’

  He looked across the fire at his giant friend, and something seemed to pass between them. Toth nodded, reached inside the rough blanket he wore across one shoulder, and produced a curious-looking set of pipes, a series of hollow reeds, each longer than the one preceding it, all bound tightly together. Quietly, the mute lifted the pipes to his lips as Durnik returned again to the beginning of the air. The sound he produced from his simple pipes had an aching poignancy about it that pierced Garion to the heart, soaring through the intricate complexity of the lute song.

  ‘I’m beginnin’ t’ feel altogether unnecessary,’ Feldegast said in wonder. ‘Me own playin’ of lute or pipe be good enough fer taverns an’ the like, but I be no virtuoso like these two.’ He looked at the huge Toth. ‘How is it possible fer a man so big t’ produce so delicate a sound?’

  ‘He’s very good,’ Eriond told him. ‘He plays for Durnik and me sometimes—when the fish aren’t biting.’

  ‘Ah, ‘tis a grand sound,’ Feldegast said, ‘an’ far too good t’ be wasted.’ He looked across the fire at Vella. ‘Would ye be willin’t’ give us a bit of a dance, me girl, t’ sort of round out the evenin’?’

  ‘Why not?’ She laughed with a toss of her head. She rose to her feet and moved to the opposite side of the fire. ‘Follow this beat,’ she instructed, raising her rounded arms above her head and snapping her fingers to set the tempo. Feldegast picked up the beat, clapping his hands rhythmically.

  Garion had seen Vella dance before—long ago in a forest tavern in Gar og Nadrak—so he knew more or less what to expect. He was sure, however, that Eriond certainly—and Ce’Nedra probably—should not watch a performance of such blatant sensuality. Vella’s dance began innocuously enough, though, and he began to think that perhaps he had been unduly sensitive the last time he had watched her.

  When the sharp staccato of her snapping fingers and Feldegast’s clapping increased the tempo, however, and she began to dance with greater abandon, he realized that his first assessment had been correct. Eriond should really not be watching this dance, and Ce’Nedra should be sent away almost immediately. For the life of him, however, he could not think of any way to do it.

  When the tempo slowed again and Durnik and Toth returned to a simple restatement of the original air, the Nadrak girl concluded her dance with that proud, aggressive strut that challenged every man about the fire.

  To Garion’s absolute astonishment, Eriond warmly applauded with no trace of embarrassment showing on his young face. He knew that his own neck was burning and that his breath was coming faster.

  Ce’Nedra’s reaction was about what he had expected. Her cheeks were flaming and her eyes were wide. Then she suddenly laughed with delight. ‘Wonderful!’ she exclaimed, and her eyes were full of mischief as she cast a sidelong glance at Garion. He coughed nervously.

  Feldegast wiped a tear from his eye and blew his nose gustily. Then he rose to his feet. ‘Ah, me fine, lusty wench,’ he said fulsomely to Vella, hanging a regretful embrace about her neck and—endangering life and limb just a little in view of her ever-ready daggers—bussing her noisily on the lips, ‘it’s destroyed altogether I am that we must part. I’ll miss ye, me girl, an’ make no mistake about that. But I make ye me promise that we’ll meet again, an’ I’ll delight ye with a few of me naughty little stories, an’ ye’ll fuddle me brains with yer wicked brew, an’ we’ll laugh an’ sing together an’ enjoy spring after spring in the sheer delight of each others’ company.’ Then he slapped her rather familiarly on the bottom and moved quickly out of range before she could find the hilt of one of her daggers.

  ‘Does she dance for you often, Yarblek?’ Silk asked his partner, his eyes very bright.

  ‘Too often,’ Yarblek replied mournfully, ‘and every time she does, I find myself starting to think that her daggers aren’t really all that sharp and that a little cut or two wouldn’t really hurt too much.’

  ‘Feel free to try at any time, Yarblek,’ Vella offered, her hand suggestively on the hilt of one of her daggers. Then she looked at Ce’Nedra with a broad wink.

  ‘Why do you dance like that?’ Ce’Nedra asked, still blushing slightly. ‘You know what it does to every man who watches.’

  ‘That’s part of the fun, Ce’Nedra. First you drive them crazy, and then you hold them off with your daggers. It makes them absolutely wild. Next time we meet, I’ll show you how it’s done.’ She looked at Garion and laughed a wicked laugh.

  Belgarath returned to the fire. He had left at some time during Vella’s dance, though Garion’s eyes had been too busy to notice. ‘It’s dark enough,’ he told them all. ‘I think we can leave now without attracting any notice.’

  They all rose from where they had been sitting.

  ‘You know what to do?’ Silk asked his partner.

  Yarblek nodded.

  ‘All right. Do whatever you have to to keep me out of the soup.’

  ‘Why do you persist in playing around in politics, Silk?’

  ‘Because it gives me access to greater opportunities to steal.’

  ‘Oh,’ Yarblek said. ‘That�
�s all right then.’ He extended his hand. ‘Take care, Silk,’ he said.

  ‘You, too, Yarblek. Try to keep us solvent if you can, and I’ll see you in a year or so.’

  ‘If you live.’

  ‘There’s that, too.’

  ‘I enjoyed your dance, Vella,’ Polgara said, embracing the Nadrak girl.

  ‘I’m honored, Lady,’ Vella replied a bit shyly. ‘And we’ll meet again, I’m sure.’

  ‘I’m certain that we will.’

  ‘Are ye sure that ye won’t reconsider yer outrageous askin’ price, Master Yarblek?’ Feldegast asked.

  ‘Talk to her about it,’ Yarblek replied, jerking his head in Vella’s direction. ‘She’s the one who set it.’

  ‘’Tis a hardhearted woman ye are, me girl,’ the juggler accused her.

  She shrugged. ‘If you buy something cheap, you don’t value it.’

  ‘Now that’s the truth, surely. I’ll see what I kin do t’ put me hands on some money, fer make no mistake, me fine wench, I mean t’ own ye.’

  ‘We’ll see,’ she replied with a slight smile.

  They went out of the circle of firelight to their picketed horses—and the juggler’s mule—and mounted quietly. The moon had set, and the stars lay like bright jewels across the warm, velvet throat of night as they rode out of Yarblek’s camp and moved at a cautious walk toward the north. When the sun rose several hours later, they were miles away, moving northward along a well-maintained highway toward Mal Rakuth, the Angarak city lying on the south bank of the Raku River, the stream that marked the southern border of Venna. The morning was warm, the sky was clear, and they made good time.

  Once again there were refugees on the road, but unlike yesterday, significant numbers of them were fleeing toward the south.

  ‘Is it possible that the plague has broken out in the north as well?’ Sadi asked.

  Polgara frowned. ‘It’s possible, I suppose,’ she told him.

  ‘I think it’s more likely that those people are fleeing from Mengha,’ Belgarath disagreed.

  ‘It’s going to get a bit chaotic hereabouts,’ Silk noted. ‘If you’ve got people fleeing in one direction from the plague and people fleeing in the other from the demons, about all they’ll be able to do is mill around out here on these plains.’

  ‘That could work to our advantage, Kheldar,’ Velvet pointed out. ‘Sooner or later, Zakath is going to discover that we left Mal Zeth without saying good-bye and he’s likely to send troops out looking for us. A bit of chaos in this region should help to confuse their search, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘You’ve got a point there,’ he admitted.

  Garion rode on in a half doze, a trick he had learned from Belgarath. Though he had occasionally missed a night’s sleep in the past, he had never really gotten used to it. He rode along with his head down, only faintly aware of what was happening around him.

  He heard a persistent sound that seemed to nag at the edge of his consciousness. He frowned, his eyes still closed, trying to identify the sound. And then he remembered. It was a faint, despairing wail, and the full horror of the sight of the dying child in the shabby street in Mal Zeth struck him. Try though he might, he could not wrench himself back into wakefulness, and the continuing cry tore at his heart.

  Then he felt a large hand on his shoulder, shaking him gently. Struggling, he raised his head to look full into the sad face of the giant Toth.

  ‘Did you hear it, too?’ he asked.

  Toth nodded, his face filled with sympathy.

  ‘It was only a dream, wasn’t it?’

  Toth spread his hands, and his look was uncertain.

  Garion squared his shoulders and sat up in his saddle, determined not to drift off again.

  They rode some distance away from the road and took a cold lunch of bread, cheese, and smoked sausage in the shade of a large elm tree standing quite alone in the middle of a field of oats. There was a small spring surrounded by a mossy rock wall not far away, where they were able to water the horses and fill their water bags.

  Belgarath stood looking out over the fields toward a distant village and the barricaded lane which approached it. ‘How much food do we have with us, Pol?’ he asked. ‘If every village we come to is closed up the way the ones we’ve passed so far have been, it’s going to be difficult to replenish our stores.’

  ‘I think we’ll be all right, father,’ she replied. ‘Vella was very generous.’

  ‘I like her,’ Ce’Nedra smiled. ‘Even though she does swear all the time.’

  Polgara returned the smile. ‘It’s the Nadrak way, dear,’ she said. ‘When I was in Gar og Nadrak, I had to draw on my memories of the more colorful parts of my father’s vocabulary to get by.’

  ‘Hallooo!’ someone hailed them.

  ‘He’s over there.’ Silk pointed toward the road.

  A man who was wearing one of the brown robes that identified him as a Melcene bureaucrat sat looking at them longingly from the back of a bay horse.

  ‘What do you want?’ Durnik called to him.

  ‘Can you spare a bit of food?’ the Melcene shouted. ‘I can’t get near any of these villages and I haven’t eaten in three days. I can pay.’

  Durnik looked questioningly at Polgara.

  She nodded. ‘We have enough,’ she said.

  ‘Which way was he coming?’ Belgarath asked.

  ‘South, I think,’ Silk replied.

  ‘Tell him that it’s all right, Durnik,’ the old man said. ‘He can probably give us some recent news from the north.’

  ‘Come on in,’ Durnik shouted to the hungry man.

  The bureaucrat rode up until he was about twenty yards away. Then he stopped warily. ‘Are you from Mal Zeth?’ he demanded.

  ‘We left before the plague broke out,’ Silk lied.

  The official hesitated. ‘I’ll put the money on this rock here,’ he offered, pointing at a white boulder. ‘Then I’ll move back a ways. You can take the money and leave some food. That way neither one of us will endanger the other.’

  ‘Makes sense,’ Silk replied pleasantly.

  Polgara took a loaf of brown bread and a generous slab of cheese from her stores and gave them to the sharp-faced Drasnian.

  The Melcene dismounted, laid a few coins on the rock, and then led his horse back some distance.

  ‘Where have you come from, friend?’ Silk asked as he approached the rock.

  ‘I was in Akkad in Katakor,’ the hungry man answered, eyeing the loaf and the cheese. ‘I was senior administrator there for the Bureau of Public Works—you know, walls, aqueducts, streets—that sort of thing. The bribes weren’t spectacular, but I managed to get by. Anyway, I got out just a few hours before Mengha and his demons got there.’

  Silk laid the food on the rock and picked up the money. Then he backed away. ‘We heard that Akkad fell quite some time ago.’

  The Melcene almost ran to the rock and snatched up the bread and cheese. He took a large bite of cheese and tore a chunk off the loaf. ‘I hid out in the mountains,’ he replied around the mouthful.

  ‘Isn’t that where Ashaba is?’ Silk asked, sounding very casual.

  The Melcene swallowed hard and nodded. ‘That’s why I finally left,’ he said, stuffing bread in his mouth. ‘The area’s infested with huge wild dogs—ugly brutes as big as horses—and there are roving bands of Karands killing everyone they come across. I could have avoided all that, but there’s something terrible going on at Ashaba. There are dreadful sounds coming from the castle and strange lights in the sky over it at night. I don’t hold with the supernatural, my friend, so I bolted.’ He sighed happily, tearing off another chunk of bread. ‘A month ago I’d have turned my nose up at brown bread and cheese. Now it tastes like a banquet.’

  ‘Hunger’s the best sauce,’ Silk quoted the old adage.

  ‘That’s the honest truth.’

  ‘Why didn’t you stay up in Venna? Didn’t you know that there’s plague in Mal Zeth?’

  The M
elcene shuddered. ‘What’s going on in Venna’s even worse than what’s going on in Katakor or Mal Zeth,’ he replied. ‘My nerves are absolutely destroyed by all this. I’m an engineer. What do I know about demons and new Gods and magic? Give me paving stones and timbers and mortar and a few modest bribes and don’t even mention any of that other nonsense to me.’

  ‘New Gods?’ Silk asked. ‘Who’s been talking about new Gods?’

  ‘The Chandim. You’ve heard of them?’

  ‘Don’t they belong to Urvon the Disciple?’

  ‘I don’t think they belong to anybody right now. They’ve gone on a rampage in Venna. Nobody’s seen Urvon for more than a month now—not even the people in Mal Yaska. The Chandim are completely out of control. They’re erecting altars out in the fields and holding double sacrifices—the first heart to Torak and the second to this new God of Angarak—and anybody up there that doesn’t bow to both altars gets his heart cut out right on the spot.’

  ‘That seems like a very good reason to stay out of Venna,’ Silk said wryly. ‘Have they put a name to this new God of theirs?’

  ‘Not that I ever heard. They just call him “The new God of Angarak, come to replace Torak and to take dreadful vengeance on the Godslayer.”’

  ‘That’s you,’ Velvet murmured to Garion.

  ‘Do you mind?’

  ‘I just thought you ought to know, that’s all.’

  ‘There’s an open war going on in Venna, my friend,’ the Melcene continued, ‘and I’d advise you to give the place a wide berth.’

  ‘War?’

  ‘Within the Church itself. The Chandim are slaughtering all the old Grolims—the ones who are still faithful to Torak. The Temple Guardsmen are taking sides and they’re having pitched battles on the plains up there—that’s when they’re not marauding through the countryside, burning farmsteads, and massacring whole villages. You’d think that the whole of Venna’s gone crazy. It’s as much as a man’s life is worth to go through there just now. They stop you and ask you which God you worship, and a wrong answer is fatal.’ He paused, still eating. ‘Have you heard about any place that’s quiet—and safe?’ he asked plaintively.